Friday, September 26, 2008
Holy Black Cats, It's That Time of Year Again
Insane Halloween Costumes
by Chris Bucholz
We feel the need to point out that we didn't photoshop this, although clearly, this is exactly the kind of thing we'd photoshop were we inclined to create a monkey costume with an obscenely large sack and a tiny penis.
On a related note, if any of our readers work for a charitable organization, we'd be willing to bet that the "monkey with an enormous ball sack and tiny penis costume" might just be the hot new successor to those rubber Livestrong bracelets.
From the world famous "Party Costume" line of party costumes, we have here a bodysuit patterned with what appears to be one of those Magic Eye things. "Don't focus on my ass. Focus through it."
Nothing says "I love the US of A!" and "man camel toe" like an American Flag bodysuit.
If you ever wanted to connect your head to your penis like some insane M.C. Escher drawing, this Halloween, consider the Mobius Giraffe.
This is sort of what we'd imagine a holiday film by Quentin Tarantino would look like.
Dasher: "Have you ever given a guy a foot massage?"
Blitzen: "Fuck You."
Here' a giraffe, wearing a nice yellow collared shirt. Plaid too. Guess he couldn't afford the bottom half of the giraffe costume, so he wore the yellowiest thing he could find.
The closer you look at the way the mouth is hanging open like that, the more you have to wonder if we've stumbled upon an outfit for an unusually specialized type of fetish.
This might be the most racist thing we've ever seen.
This eggplant clearly has somewhere to be, so we won't keep him.
We were a little torn about whether to use this picture or not, as the model is clearly not Japanese. We decided to include it, and a few others, simply because they were too ridiculous to pass up. Our favorite part of this one is the cocksure look on the guy' face. "Yes, that is the lower body of a swan ballerina, thank you for noticing. My skull is an enigmatic and magical being, and has a complicated back-story and creation mythology. I would be happy to explain it to you over coffee, or perhaps a drink sometime."
And finally, we have the last costume from Japan. And we don't mean the last costume in this article, or the last costume wefound. We mean the last costume ever. The Omega Costume. Over the course of researching this article, we discovered that the huge amount of heroically retarded costumes we saw were only incremental steps of the development process of the Japanese Costume industry. Incremental steps that led to this, the greatest costume to ever exist:
by Chris Bucholz
Full Body Costumes
On a related note, if any of our readers work for a charitable organization, we'd be willing to bet that the "monkey with an enormous ball sack and tiny penis costume" might just be the hot new successor to those rubber Livestrong bracelets.
Masks
Dasher: "Have you ever given a guy a foot massage?"
Blitzen: "Fuck You."
The closer you look at the way the mouth is hanging open like that, the more you have to wonder if we've stumbled upon an outfit for an unusually specialized type of fetish.
And finally, we have the last costume from Japan. And we don't mean the last costume in this article, or the last costume wefound. We mean the last costume ever. The Omega Costume. Over the course of researching this article, we discovered that the huge amount of heroically retarded costumes we saw were only incremental steps of the development process of the Japanese Costume industry. Incremental steps that led to this, the greatest costume to ever exist:
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Gulp, The Rachel Zoe Project; Ignore If You Don't Have Cable
I just watched a couple of episodes, against my better judgment, and my mouth was so dry from hanging agape throughout the ordeal, that I had to plunge it into my iced tea in order to hydrate it enough to smirk, or eat. Well, maybe not eat.
First, I would like to discuss the husband. A lot of people have joked that he clearly seems gay, but he is too much of a wuss to be gay. He’s a dorky mama’s boy who wears so much jewelry that it looks like he robbed a gold kiosk at the Palisades mall, and he’s way too into his hair. I haven’t watched enough of this garbage to figure out what he actually does for a living, besides pout and put on scarves, but I fear the Grateful Dead conversation in one of the episodes may provide a clue. The thought of he and Rachel at a Grateful Dead show defies my ability to conjure even a shadow of this image to my mind’s eye. Do they tailgate in those get-ups? I also couldn’t help but notice that he has an icky paunch, and puffy hands. ICKY PAUNCH AND PUFFY HANDS, I won’t sleep now and my gag reflex is going into overdrive.
During the New York Fashion Week episode, I bet when he asks Rachel to drop him off at 21st Street and Fifth Avenue, he is actually going to have sex with a sloppy, teenaged Shoshanna Lonstein type that he picked up earlier in the week at a falafel stand near Union Square. And what the fuck is up with that plaid “newsboy” cap-hat he plopped onto his Katie Holmes bob???? I bet he has a “guitar” propped up somewhere in their apartment that he doodles on mercilessly, and every opportunity he gets, he waxes on about the “band” he used to play with back in New Jersey before he became a banker (just a guess, but I bet he is some sort of nebulous "hedge fund guy"). Insert picture of Dawn Wiener’s brother’s band playing in the garage in Welcome To The Dollhouse…
I guess for Rachel, it must be like having a sister. You know, that sister who tries to be a cool, butch tomboy despite the fact that she whines when you don’t pay her enough attention (he's her Sam Ronson!). He plays pool! He drinks beer! He’s a Deadhead! This guy is 13 years and a highlight away from turning into a dead ringer for Martha Stewart. Can’t you picture it: in 10 years, he’ll be waving a turkey baster full of Brad’s sperm at a now-Rue McLanahan-resembling Rachel who, pointing to a wrinkled and dehydrated vagina in a pickle jar, will scream, “Taaaaaay! Get in here and get inseminated! Are you kidding me right now? Let’s Bounce!”
He looks like he exfoliates.
First, I would like to discuss the husband. A lot of people have joked that he clearly seems gay, but he is too much of a wuss to be gay. He’s a dorky mama’s boy who wears so much jewelry that it looks like he robbed a gold kiosk at the Palisades mall, and he’s way too into his hair. I haven’t watched enough of this garbage to figure out what he actually does for a living, besides pout and put on scarves, but I fear the Grateful Dead conversation in one of the episodes may provide a clue. The thought of he and Rachel at a Grateful Dead show defies my ability to conjure even a shadow of this image to my mind’s eye. Do they tailgate in those get-ups? I also couldn’t help but notice that he has an icky paunch, and puffy hands. ICKY PAUNCH AND PUFFY HANDS, I won’t sleep now and my gag reflex is going into overdrive.
During the New York Fashion Week episode, I bet when he asks Rachel to drop him off at 21st Street and Fifth Avenue, he is actually going to have sex with a sloppy, teenaged Shoshanna Lonstein type that he picked up earlier in the week at a falafel stand near Union Square. And what the fuck is up with that plaid “newsboy” cap-hat he plopped onto his Katie Holmes bob???? I bet he has a “guitar” propped up somewhere in their apartment that he doodles on mercilessly, and every opportunity he gets, he waxes on about the “band” he used to play with back in New Jersey before he became a banker (just a guess, but I bet he is some sort of nebulous "hedge fund guy"). Insert picture of Dawn Wiener’s brother’s band playing in the garage in Welcome To The Dollhouse…
I guess for Rachel, it must be like having a sister. You know, that sister who tries to be a cool, butch tomboy despite the fact that she whines when you don’t pay her enough attention (he's her Sam Ronson!). He plays pool! He drinks beer! He’s a Deadhead! This guy is 13 years and a highlight away from turning into a dead ringer for Martha Stewart. Can’t you picture it: in 10 years, he’ll be waving a turkey baster full of Brad’s sperm at a now-Rue McLanahan-resembling Rachel who, pointing to a wrinkled and dehydrated vagina in a pickle jar, will scream, “Taaaaaay! Get in here and get inseminated! Are you kidding me right now? Let’s Bounce!”
He looks like he exfoliates.
The Day New York Stood Still, and Looked Like This
Just once, I would like to walk the streets of New York City, and see every single person looking like this, inexplicably. Even the pets.
I am imagining that these wonders of crochet are full-body encasements, and not merely reserved for the head. Looking at those pictures, I think we now know what happened to The Children of The Corn.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Cintra Wilson's Pissed About Palin - As Everyone Should Be
Do yourself a favor, and read Cintra's hilarious and frightening take on the scourge that is.... Sarah Palin as White House Bunny and her legion of deluded lunatics, er, followers...
www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2008/09/10/palin_feminism/
www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2008/09/10/palin_feminism/
Thursday, September 18, 2008
I Could Not Agree More With Harry Burt - Especially When It Comes To "Prehensile Tails"
Phrases I'd Rather Not Be Used at My Funeral.
BY HARRY BURT
"autoerotic asphyxiation"
"found by cadaver dogs"
"hopped up on goofballs"
"minutes from rescue"
"prehensile tail"
Part of Streetwalker played by Undercover Shoveler
Okay, I’ll admit it. I am a bit of a junkie for horrible, cheesy, soul-destroying cable television. Arch and exploitive crime shows that highlight inconceivable crimes, the odd kidnapping, forensics, well, these are among the favorites before which I kneel, guiltily. If you met me on the street, you would never guess this unsavory fact about my use of valuable spare time. You would not instantly, or remotely, conjure an image of this tall, willowy woman folding herself into a sea of linen and dogs, lit only by the gray flicker of televised murder and mayhem littered with more mullets and belly-shirts than one could possibly imagine. Yet, there it is, the truth in all its unsightly glory.
One thing that has always nagged at me is, who are the “actors” procured for these reenactments? I know that a fair amount of these people, particularly the cops and doctors, play themselves, but what of the rest? Is there some sort of niche agency for ugly people that exclusively traffics in reenactment actors and talk-show guests? For example, on a recent episode of a cold case program, there was an unwieldy and overweight woman hunkered down at a bank during a robbery – she of the raggedy waist-length hair, disconcertingly bifurcated by 7-inch half-permed with two-tone roots, which had clearly remained unwashed for a significant period of time – was she playing herself? If not, does she fancy herself a professional actress? If so, how did she get this gig? I shudder at the mental picture of her go-sees and the potentially awkward audition process. I mean, would she be waiting in line at the casting call for Buffy the Vampire Slayer, while all the other hopefuls wondered (some aloud) if the producer’s crystal meth dealer got caught in the wrong line?
All I know is, I want in. I have to do one of these shows, just once. There are no delusions of grandeur clouding my dreams here. I aspire to nothing overtly big, no starring role as the Prime Suspect, or the Glamorous Victim With the Sordid Past, or the Sexy Black Widow on the Run.
Oh no.
I would be perfectly happy as the loopy witness with an uneven accent, the bucktoothed neighbor with the cockeyed kids, the lazy, alcoholic, tramp cousin, the halting and obtuse patrol cop or even the discreetly posed corpse. No nudity though unless my privates are obscured by an overgrown shrub, or hidden from view by a filthy dumpster in a Popeye’s parking lot. Hmmm, interesting career direction to consider. Moonlighting, perhaps?
Questions, questions! Does one need a SAG card? How much would it pay (I’m guessing it’s somewhere in the neighborhood of $50 - $200 a pop or, more likely, just free Craft Services for the afternoon)? Also, if you are booked on the Jerry Springer show as a dim-witted honky from the sticks who inadvertently married her brother/son and now happen to be pregnant with a genetic time-bomb, would this be a conflict of interest if you had recently appeared on Forensic Files as the scorned mistress who hired a handyman to chop up her lover in a bathtub with a pick-ax, and turn him into meatsicles? I would speculate that it might depend on the talent of the person or persons responsible for the hair/makeup/wigs or, at the very least, one’s dialect coach. Oh, and there is something else.
One of the unfortunate side effects of watching these crime shows incessantly is an alarming tendency to “speak the language” of the “authorities” and various “experts.” One starts to say things like, “I’ll wait over here with the bags until the scene has been fully secured, and you have successfully exited the vehicle,” upon exiting said vehicle, and waiting for one's boyfriend to park the car in front of one’s apartment. However, you know you have gone too far, when you pull out the yellow police tape and cordon off the area until said boyfriend arrives, nonplussed, to find you picking up lint with the back of a dampened envelope flap.
Hey, as long as during private, sexy time he doesn’t ask you to “reenact” the corpse you "played" on the last episode of Cold Case, then I don’t see the problem.
One thing that has always nagged at me is, who are the “actors” procured for these reenactments? I know that a fair amount of these people, particularly the cops and doctors, play themselves, but what of the rest? Is there some sort of niche agency for ugly people that exclusively traffics in reenactment actors and talk-show guests? For example, on a recent episode of a cold case program, there was an unwieldy and overweight woman hunkered down at a bank during a robbery – she of the raggedy waist-length hair, disconcertingly bifurcated by 7-inch half-permed with two-tone roots, which had clearly remained unwashed for a significant period of time – was she playing herself? If not, does she fancy herself a professional actress? If so, how did she get this gig? I shudder at the mental picture of her go-sees and the potentially awkward audition process. I mean, would she be waiting in line at the casting call for Buffy the Vampire Slayer, while all the other hopefuls wondered (some aloud) if the producer’s crystal meth dealer got caught in the wrong line?
All I know is, I want in. I have to do one of these shows, just once. There are no delusions of grandeur clouding my dreams here. I aspire to nothing overtly big, no starring role as the Prime Suspect, or the Glamorous Victim With the Sordid Past, or the Sexy Black Widow on the Run.
Oh no.
I would be perfectly happy as the loopy witness with an uneven accent, the bucktoothed neighbor with the cockeyed kids, the lazy, alcoholic, tramp cousin, the halting and obtuse patrol cop or even the discreetly posed corpse. No nudity though unless my privates are obscured by an overgrown shrub, or hidden from view by a filthy dumpster in a Popeye’s parking lot. Hmmm, interesting career direction to consider. Moonlighting, perhaps?
Questions, questions! Does one need a SAG card? How much would it pay (I’m guessing it’s somewhere in the neighborhood of $50 - $200 a pop or, more likely, just free Craft Services for the afternoon)? Also, if you are booked on the Jerry Springer show as a dim-witted honky from the sticks who inadvertently married her brother/son and now happen to be pregnant with a genetic time-bomb, would this be a conflict of interest if you had recently appeared on Forensic Files as the scorned mistress who hired a handyman to chop up her lover in a bathtub with a pick-ax, and turn him into meatsicles? I would speculate that it might depend on the talent of the person or persons responsible for the hair/makeup/wigs or, at the very least, one’s dialect coach. Oh, and there is something else.
One of the unfortunate side effects of watching these crime shows incessantly is an alarming tendency to “speak the language” of the “authorities” and various “experts.” One starts to say things like, “I’ll wait over here with the bags until the scene has been fully secured, and you have successfully exited the vehicle,” upon exiting said vehicle, and waiting for one's boyfriend to park the car in front of one’s apartment. However, you know you have gone too far, when you pull out the yellow police tape and cordon off the area until said boyfriend arrives, nonplussed, to find you picking up lint with the back of a dampened envelope flap.
Hey, as long as during private, sexy time he doesn’t ask you to “reenact” the corpse you "played" on the last episode of Cold Case, then I don’t see the problem.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Rodarte New York Fashion Week
Disappointingly, the Rodarte show turned out to be a total rehash of last season, and the shoes are, in my opinion, “Past-season YSL doing Louboutin doing Rodarte pretending they can design shoes like Louboutin.” MESS!!!
Seriously, I think that guy (Nicholas Kirkwood, who "designed" the shoes) is indeed talented, but come on – look at how FAT the feet look in those shoes!! They were a phantasmagoria of misplaced straps, awkward hardware and a general ill-conceived mélange of construction completely unflattering to the foot and the woman. Clearly, he allowed those two vipers in kindergarten smocks to bulldoze him into letting them design their own shoes.
People, please stick to doing what you know how to do! Clearly, despite their formidable talents, shoes are not what these two women know how to do. Perhaps they should have worried less about actualizing something that should have been left to others more capable, and refocused their attention on creating a fresh collection worthy of their newfound fame.
Karma is a bitch, and she is NOT wearing Rodarte. Anymore.
Well, at least not this season.
Seriously, I think that guy (Nicholas Kirkwood, who "designed" the shoes) is indeed talented, but come on – look at how FAT the feet look in those shoes!! They were a phantasmagoria of misplaced straps, awkward hardware and a general ill-conceived mélange of construction completely unflattering to the foot and the woman. Clearly, he allowed those two vipers in kindergarten smocks to bulldoze him into letting them design their own shoes.
People, please stick to doing what you know how to do! Clearly, despite their formidable talents, shoes are not what these two women know how to do. Perhaps they should have worried less about actualizing something that should have been left to others more capable, and refocused their attention on creating a fresh collection worthy of their newfound fame.
Karma is a bitch, and she is NOT wearing Rodarte. Anymore.
Well, at least not this season.
Peter Braunstein and I Have Something in Common
For the love of God, some guy is clanging on a giant piece of metal below my window, and it sounds like the East Indian Parade but without the rhythm and the feathered headdresses. The infernal banging is now firmly lodged inside my head, and no amount of “Rainforest Birds” or “Ocean Waves” or “Jingling Coins” can effectively drown it out, and has since evolved into a permanent sonic headache. Now I understand how people suddenly lose their minds and uncharacteristically assault their neighbor with a steel-toed boot, as a result of enduring long-term exposure to repetitive, disruptive noise long enough. At this point, the skin over my eyes has tightened so that the lids no longer close, and I can feel my eyeballs looking for a swift exit. Consequently, I am confident that I must now resemble that infamous photograph in the New York Post of a barely restrained Peter Braunstein, wild-eyed, and ready to leap witless over the defense table into a barrage of gunfire.
Anything to quiet that pounding in one’s head.
Anything to quiet that pounding in one’s head.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Drew Discusses Children and Marshall's
Drew of "I hate this vacuum" fame, is back here again. I relentlessly combed the online universe to find out the identity of this guy, who is, as suspected, a professional writer and lights up the Amazon universe with his insightful critiques. His name is Drew Magary and he is a sports writer, although clearly he can write about anything and crack your shit up. This post is from F.K.S on blogger, which has a bunch of hilarious anecdotes, so please entertain yourselves there for hours (http://fatherknowsshit.blogspot.com/) as I have, but first, I couldn't resist this next gem right off the bat:
Tuesday, July 11, 2006 posted by Big Daddy Drew at 9:50 PM 
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Children With Penises Are Overrated
The other day the family and I packed up the car and headed over to Marshall’s. Marshall’s – It’s just like a department store, except that you’re poor! Anyway, we go into the store and I start looking for some white t-shirts. If you’ve ever been to a Marshall’s (or a TJ Maxx, or any other place that’s the retail equivalent of Goodwill), you know that finding anything specific in there is like trying to find your dog’s shit after dark. The entire store is gigantic bargain rack, which means the clothing you’re looking for was likely thrown on the floor, or placed next to a 64 oz. jar of apple butter.
At any other store, I’d look for an employee to tell me where the shirts are. But this is Marshall’s. You’d have better luck finding a copy of High Society at Ryan Seacrest’s house than finding an employee at Marshall’s. Or, if you’re like me, you do the thing where you accidentally ask a black guy who doesn’t work there where something is. Hooray, casual racism! And, even if you do find an actual employee, it’s unlikely that their brain has synapses that actually fire.
So I go to find my stuff the old fashioned way, when I notice a kid in the shoe section. This kid was probably 13 years old. He weighed roughly 200 pounds, wore dirty mesh shorts that hung down below his knees, and a t-shirt that was three sizes too big (didn’t know they made quintuple XL’s). He wore knee-high socks that had no elastic in them. He had bedhead and clearly hadn’t showered in two or three days. I thought I had already seen my worst nightmare. I was wrong.
God, I’m glad my child doesn’t have a penis. Yes, there are things to worry about when you have a girl. Will she date normal guys? Will she fall in with the wrong crowd? What if she can’t get on the list at Bungalow 8? Those are all normal concerns. But a son comes with worries all his own. You’ll always love a daughter. But what if, for reasons beyond your control, your son becomes a complete and utter tool? What if you love him, but don’t actually like him? What if he ends up being fucking Stewart from “Beavis & Butthead”?
Looking at that kid at Marshall’s, I thought to myself that, if he was my kid, I’d probably spend 12 hours a day just punching the shit out of him. Until I suddenly realized why the kid frightened me so. Because, at that age, I was exactly the same. When I was 13, I ordered a t-shirt from the back pages of Rolling Stone that said “New Kids on the Chopping Block.” It featured an illustration of Joe, Jordan, Donnie, Danny, and Jon (I listed that from memory) with their heads cut off. I thought it was the greatest t-shirt ever. God, what a fucking douche.
It gets worse. I was overweight. I had dandruff. When I sat on the couch, I stuck my hands in my pants. I liked making cinnamon toast 3 times a day. I thought Baja shirts were cool. I fucked my sheets. This is not the stuff greatness is made of. If I have a son, it’s likely I’ll be confronted with a spitting image of myself at the most awkward, miserable time of my life. Stupid Freudian insight! The Girl comes with no such baggage. She’s perfect. She’s clean, affable, and smells like apricots. My son would likely have none of those features.
My plan is to hold off on having the next kid until I’m 65. Then, we can have a boy by surrogate. That way, by the time he’s morphed into 13-year-old dipshit with unmistakable Drew-like qualities, I’ll be long dead of cirrhosis of the liver. Now that’s Planned Parenthood.
Oh, and I found the t-shirts. You can hide all you want, Calvin Klein men’s crew necks, but I’ll always find you.
At any other store, I’d look for an employee to tell me where the shirts are. But this is Marshall’s. You’d have better luck finding a copy of High Society at Ryan Seacrest’s house than finding an employee at Marshall’s. Or, if you’re like me, you do the thing where you accidentally ask a black guy who doesn’t work there where something is. Hooray, casual racism! And, even if you do find an actual employee, it’s unlikely that their brain has synapses that actually fire.
So I go to find my stuff the old fashioned way, when I notice a kid in the shoe section. This kid was probably 13 years old. He weighed roughly 200 pounds, wore dirty mesh shorts that hung down below his knees, and a t-shirt that was three sizes too big (didn’t know they made quintuple XL’s). He wore knee-high socks that had no elastic in them. He had bedhead and clearly hadn’t showered in two or three days. I thought I had already seen my worst nightmare. I was wrong.
God, I’m glad my child doesn’t have a penis. Yes, there are things to worry about when you have a girl. Will she date normal guys? Will she fall in with the wrong crowd? What if she can’t get on the list at Bungalow 8? Those are all normal concerns. But a son comes with worries all his own. You’ll always love a daughter. But what if, for reasons beyond your control, your son becomes a complete and utter tool? What if you love him, but don’t actually like him? What if he ends up being fucking Stewart from “Beavis & Butthead”?
Looking at that kid at Marshall’s, I thought to myself that, if he was my kid, I’d probably spend 12 hours a day just punching the shit out of him. Until I suddenly realized why the kid frightened me so. Because, at that age, I was exactly the same. When I was 13, I ordered a t-shirt from the back pages of Rolling Stone that said “New Kids on the Chopping Block.” It featured an illustration of Joe, Jordan, Donnie, Danny, and Jon (I listed that from memory) with their heads cut off. I thought it was the greatest t-shirt ever. God, what a fucking douche.
It gets worse. I was overweight. I had dandruff. When I sat on the couch, I stuck my hands in my pants. I liked making cinnamon toast 3 times a day. I thought Baja shirts were cool. I fucked my sheets. This is not the stuff greatness is made of. If I have a son, it’s likely I’ll be confronted with a spitting image of myself at the most awkward, miserable time of my life. Stupid Freudian insight! The Girl comes with no such baggage. She’s perfect. She’s clean, affable, and smells like apricots. My son would likely have none of those features.
My plan is to hold off on having the next kid until I’m 65. Then, we can have a boy by surrogate. That way, by the time he’s morphed into 13-year-old dipshit with unmistakable Drew-like qualities, I’ll be long dead of cirrhosis of the liver. Now that’s Planned Parenthood.
Oh, and I found the t-shirts. You can hide all you want, Calvin Klein men’s crew necks, but I’ll always find you.
Thy Nemesis is a Vacuum Cleaner
This is the review you have always wanted to write about that nasty/defective/asinine something-or-other you bought, and somehow paid way too much money for. It starts out a bit slow, but really gets going. Don't forgo the comments section - it's priceless. Not a joke.
http://www.amazon.com/review/R2C54W4I5AUNVS
http://www.amazon.com/review/R2C54W4I5AUNVS
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Chicken Wings Anyone?
A trip to the salon for a manicure/pedicure led me down this road, reflecting on the dialog that ensued regarding the less-than-stellar condition of my cuticles:
So I happen to pick. Relentlessly. I pick and pull at the skin surrounding my fingernails (but only on my thumb and middle finger, a very important distinction you see) until they resemble a couple of raw and bloody miniature hams. Sometimes it hurts to do this, despite the temporary relief from minor anxiety that it provides. It is low-level orgiastic self-mutilation of a very public and embarrassing kind.
People always assume I am a biter. “Oh, no!” I say, gravely, as if biters are somehow more depraved and deserving of shunning than us, the pickers. “I don’t bite my nails,” I emphasize dismissively when asked, while thinking to myself, “I merely pick the skin clean off my fingers, stripping them savagely and absentmindedly like a drunken co-ed devouring a midwinter chicken-wing on 10-cent wing night, and it’s her last 10 cents,” but, hey, I’m no biter!
So I happen to pick. Relentlessly. I pick and pull at the skin surrounding my fingernails (but only on my thumb and middle finger, a very important distinction you see) until they resemble a couple of raw and bloody miniature hams. Sometimes it hurts to do this, despite the temporary relief from minor anxiety that it provides. It is low-level orgiastic self-mutilation of a very public and embarrassing kind.
People always assume I am a biter. “Oh, no!” I say, gravely, as if biters are somehow more depraved and deserving of shunning than us, the pickers. “I don’t bite my nails,” I emphasize dismissively when asked, while thinking to myself, “I merely pick the skin clean off my fingers, stripping them savagely and absentmindedly like a drunken co-ed devouring a midwinter chicken-wing on 10-cent wing night, and it’s her last 10 cents,” but, hey, I’m no biter!
Continuation of An Unfortunate Theme
What is with the recurring poop theme of this past week?! I settled in for a lazy evening of bad television and flipping through magazines, while consuming as many Swedish Fish as I possibly could (I know, you expected far more, but such as it is). The worst thing I thought I would hear tonight was that McCain's numbers were continuing to rise with the help of that rare Alaskan Dingbat, who flew mightily down from her dank, pitiless cave in an effort to save him from the clutches of the devil himself. Not to be.
Instead, out of the blue, I hear about this guy who shot his wife to death, and who also happened to have a nasty habit of asking his now-dead wife to poop in his mouth on a regular basis, and who would, as these things go, proceed to make a meal out of it. Bleh. The best part of this delicate presentation was the unlikely narrator, a jarringly proper god-fearing woman resplendently coiffed in your average grandmother's hairdo, who actually articulated this less than savory bit of information to the reporter in a soft, lilting, southern drawl.
Well, what she actually said was, “He’d, you know, have her go to the bathroom in his mouth, and then he would eat it...” Did I mention that she was also wearing a pearl necklace. Wait – did I just say, WEARING A PEARL NECKLACE????
At least it got me to refrain from eating any more Swedish Fish tonight, or anything else for that matter.
Instead, out of the blue, I hear about this guy who shot his wife to death, and who also happened to have a nasty habit of asking his now-dead wife to poop in his mouth on a regular basis, and who would, as these things go, proceed to make a meal out of it. Bleh. The best part of this delicate presentation was the unlikely narrator, a jarringly proper god-fearing woman resplendently coiffed in your average grandmother's hairdo, who actually articulated this less than savory bit of information to the reporter in a soft, lilting, southern drawl.
Well, what she actually said was, “He’d, you know, have her go to the bathroom in his mouth, and then he would eat it...” Did I mention that she was also wearing a pearl necklace. Wait – did I just say, WEARING A PEARL NECKLACE????
At least it got me to refrain from eating any more Swedish Fish tonight, or anything else for that matter.
Paris - A Reflection
This is an older account of Paris past, reprinted with the hope it will not reemerge as Paris present, or Paris future...
Again, I am sitting in my hotel room in Paris, alone, contemplating forgoing all invites for the evening in favor of boozy and confused solitude that has begun to fit like a cozy sweater. Not helping matters much is the fact that the shrew sitting downstairs at “reception” is the very same bespectacled rat from two nights ago, who has become my newest arch-enemy. I am convinced that if I leave this place for more than 45 minutes with a telltale face-full of makeup, that she and her cohorts will surreptitiously enter my room and proceed to deflower my belongings. They will lick my toothbrush with dirty tongues, they will wipe their sweaty armpits onto fresh delicates, they will dip the bar glasses into slightly tinkled-in toilet water and put them back to drip dry, and then they will proceed to take indecent photos of themselves wearing my clothes in various poses in unclean parts of the hotel. This, for me, is the best-case scenario.
I want to be cloistered, cocooned. Listening to the wind whipping the Sunday night air, and the laughter and sounds of motion indicating life, I am suddenly fearful of my place within it. At this moment, venturing forth into the pleasant Parisian night seems as exotic and forlorn as showing up alone and overweight to someone else’s prom wearing your Aunt Ruth’s formal pantsuit that still smells like cheese and 1970.
I am also beginning to believe that these last years of celibacy have caused my vagina to migrate upward and commence closing in around my heart with the urgency of a dying weed. It is not looking to fill itself with child, but rather to aid in filling my heart with love and my body with the reverence of a lover’s touch. It tugs at my consciousness, poking through the fog of over-simplified chastity and fear, begging me to reconsider the death sentence I seem to have delivered to my libido and once full heart.
The rituals of mating seem so foreign and out of reach now, that I can’t imagine what I shall do to invoke them, short of laying myself down buffet-style in the middle of a singles bar. Even then, at my age, how does one feel sexy as the salty beef tongue when presented next to a slab of virginal, trembling veal, the only fresh thing in common the sweet green sprig of parsley between them? And… there it is… self-pity! Can there really be anything sexier than self-pity, insecurity and the tendency to tuck one’s chin into the creation of another chin into a turtleneck?
I think it might be time to rent Belle du Jour again. Seamed stockings! Smoky eyes! Good posture! A steady gaze filled with power, promise and mystery!
Locked up here in this room, Rapunzal style, is no way to go about fixing all of this, but I suppose trying to find a way out is a small achievement.
Again, I am sitting in my hotel room in Paris, alone, contemplating forgoing all invites for the evening in favor of boozy and confused solitude that has begun to fit like a cozy sweater. Not helping matters much is the fact that the shrew sitting downstairs at “reception” is the very same bespectacled rat from two nights ago, who has become my newest arch-enemy. I am convinced that if I leave this place for more than 45 minutes with a telltale face-full of makeup, that she and her cohorts will surreptitiously enter my room and proceed to deflower my belongings. They will lick my toothbrush with dirty tongues, they will wipe their sweaty armpits onto fresh delicates, they will dip the bar glasses into slightly tinkled-in toilet water and put them back to drip dry, and then they will proceed to take indecent photos of themselves wearing my clothes in various poses in unclean parts of the hotel. This, for me, is the best-case scenario.
I want to be cloistered, cocooned. Listening to the wind whipping the Sunday night air, and the laughter and sounds of motion indicating life, I am suddenly fearful of my place within it. At this moment, venturing forth into the pleasant Parisian night seems as exotic and forlorn as showing up alone and overweight to someone else’s prom wearing your Aunt Ruth’s formal pantsuit that still smells like cheese and 1970.
I am also beginning to believe that these last years of celibacy have caused my vagina to migrate upward and commence closing in around my heart with the urgency of a dying weed. It is not looking to fill itself with child, but rather to aid in filling my heart with love and my body with the reverence of a lover’s touch. It tugs at my consciousness, poking through the fog of over-simplified chastity and fear, begging me to reconsider the death sentence I seem to have delivered to my libido and once full heart.
The rituals of mating seem so foreign and out of reach now, that I can’t imagine what I shall do to invoke them, short of laying myself down buffet-style in the middle of a singles bar. Even then, at my age, how does one feel sexy as the salty beef tongue when presented next to a slab of virginal, trembling veal, the only fresh thing in common the sweet green sprig of parsley between them? And… there it is… self-pity! Can there really be anything sexier than self-pity, insecurity and the tendency to tuck one’s chin into the creation of another chin into a turtleneck?
I think it might be time to rent Belle du Jour again. Seamed stockings! Smoky eyes! Good posture! A steady gaze filled with power, promise and mystery!
Locked up here in this room, Rapunzal style, is no way to go about fixing all of this, but I suppose trying to find a way out is a small achievement.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Uncovered: The Merkin - Everyone's Favorite Pubic Wig
This is the best thing I have ever seen written about the merkin. Garith Francis is my hero of the hour...
Body beautiful: A Short and Curly History of the Merkin
Comedy terrorist Aaron Barschak has another claim to fame - he's put the merkin back in the spotlight.
Before his royal gatecrash, the prankster amused crowds and cameramen outside Windsor Castle by lifting his pink ball gown to reveal a luxuriant, black pubic wig - making him the latest in a long history of merkin-wearers.
The Oxford Companion To The Body traces the merkin back to 1450, a time when the bidet was a distant prospect and personal hygiene fell well short of the mark. Pubic lice were common - so some women, fed up with the constant itching, just shaved the lot off and then covered their modesty with a merkin.
Prostitutes, too, were frequent wearers. In the days before penicillin, it didn't take long to become infected with sexually transmitted diseases. They knew it was no work, no pay, and didn't want to scare the customers off with their syphilitic pustules and gonorrhoeal warts. So the merkin was used as a prosthesis to cover up a litany of horrors.
The Oxford Companion recounts an amusing tale of one gentleman who procured the disease-riddled merkin of a prostitute, dried it, gave it a good comb and then presented it to a cardinal, telling him he had brought him St Peter's beard. Some prostitutes even used them to give their nether regions a bit of razzle-dazzle. So a natural brunette could offer differing collars and cuffs to demanding customers.
These days, merkins are largely the preserve of sexual fetishists - although the Oxford Companion notes that this piece of "female finery" is also an "essential piece of the serious drag queen's wardrobe". They can be made from nylon, human hair or even yak's belly, depending on what the erotic dabbler enjoys feeling against her skin. And they're either woven on to a mesh and stuck on with spirit gum, or attached to a transparent G-string.
"I know a bit about merkins, but I don't know anyone who wears one and won't be designing one myself," says Red or Dead founder Wayne Hemingway. "I can't see them making a comeback, but it is a bloody good word."
Would-be wearers will struggle to find any merkin retailers. "We're not 100% sure our customers would buy into the merkin," says Ann Summers spokesman Philip Tooney. "The trend at the moment is less is more - with the 'full Brazilian' and the 'landing strip' proving popular."
But fanny fashion can be fickle. And if there is a return to the dense undergrowths often seen in 70s porn flicks, then the waxed, electrolysed women of today may be reaching for a merkin until nature restores their full glory.
Gareth Francis
Stargazing
Body beautiful: A Short and Curly History of the Merkin
Comedy terrorist Aaron Barschak has another claim to fame - he's put the merkin back in the spotlight.
Before his royal gatecrash, the prankster amused crowds and cameramen outside Windsor Castle by lifting his pink ball gown to reveal a luxuriant, black pubic wig - making him the latest in a long history of merkin-wearers.
The Oxford Companion To The Body traces the merkin back to 1450, a time when the bidet was a distant prospect and personal hygiene fell well short of the mark. Pubic lice were common - so some women, fed up with the constant itching, just shaved the lot off and then covered their modesty with a merkin.
Prostitutes, too, were frequent wearers. In the days before penicillin, it didn't take long to become infected with sexually transmitted diseases. They knew it was no work, no pay, and didn't want to scare the customers off with their syphilitic pustules and gonorrhoeal warts. So the merkin was used as a prosthesis to cover up a litany of horrors.
The Oxford Companion recounts an amusing tale of one gentleman who procured the disease-riddled merkin of a prostitute, dried it, gave it a good comb and then presented it to a cardinal, telling him he had brought him St Peter's beard. Some prostitutes even used them to give their nether regions a bit of razzle-dazzle. So a natural brunette could offer differing collars and cuffs to demanding customers.
These days, merkins are largely the preserve of sexual fetishists - although the Oxford Companion notes that this piece of "female finery" is also an "essential piece of the serious drag queen's wardrobe". They can be made from nylon, human hair or even yak's belly, depending on what the erotic dabbler enjoys feeling against her skin. And they're either woven on to a mesh and stuck on with spirit gum, or attached to a transparent G-string.
"I know a bit about merkins, but I don't know anyone who wears one and won't be designing one myself," says Red or Dead founder Wayne Hemingway. "I can't see them making a comeback, but it is a bloody good word."
Would-be wearers will struggle to find any merkin retailers. "We're not 100% sure our customers would buy into the merkin," says Ann Summers spokesman Philip Tooney. "The trend at the moment is less is more - with the 'full Brazilian' and the 'landing strip' proving popular."
But fanny fashion can be fickle. And if there is a return to the dense undergrowths often seen in 70s porn flicks, then the waxed, electrolysed women of today may be reaching for a merkin until nature restores their full glory.
Gareth Francis
Stargazing
Modesty Prevails Despite Too-Short Skirt
Some yuppie (now there's a word you don't hear everyday - so 80's) douche-bag snapped a picture straight up my skirt as I ran down the subway stairs today. Lucky for me, now my legs, and who-knows-what-else, will be up on one of those god-awful, vulgar websites tomorrow.
Of course, it had to be some white guy in a suit with two other white guys in suits, mid-to-late thirties, waving their yellow plastic disposable cameras like obscene smiley faces. Mortifying. Don't these guys have banking jobs to get back to? Aren't they worried that someone might steal their hookers and cocaine while they're out of the office?
Let's just say, I hope the cat stayed firmly in the cotton on that one - what with vigorous running down stairs, one never knows. I can only imagine what I will have to type into Google search in order to locate this erotic masterpiece.
Now, in Japan I will be famous from the waist down.
Of course, it had to be some white guy in a suit with two other white guys in suits, mid-to-late thirties, waving their yellow plastic disposable cameras like obscene smiley faces. Mortifying. Don't these guys have banking jobs to get back to? Aren't they worried that someone might steal their hookers and cocaine while they're out of the office?
Let's just say, I hope the cat stayed firmly in the cotton on that one - what with vigorous running down stairs, one never knows. I can only imagine what I will have to type into Google search in order to locate this erotic masterpiece.
Now, in Japan I will be famous from the waist down.
Bad Trends
Girls
My friend emailed me the other day about the latest annoying hipster-girl trend of headbands and the Bohemian-Apache-Lass look, witnessed on the L train one recent morning. It wouldn't be quite so eggregious if stylish people were doing it and vaguely “getting it right”, but inevitably it is always some overly-accessorized Christmas tree of a girl. AND they are never skinny. One must be skinny to pull off the delicate-skull-string-circumventing-forehead look, accompanied by the requisite messy hair, blank, blurry eyes, and self-consciously tattered cut-offs. MUST. I am also troubled by those weird little elf-boot sandals that these same girls are slouching around town in this summer. They look like Sandy Duncan trouncing off to a Peter Pan rehearsal after her weekly Weight-Watcher’s meeting. Oh, and how about the “Nicole Ritchie” bug-eyed-shades-and-scarf-over-head look from three years ago that has resurfaced on all the wrong heads? Between the gigantic sunglasses and swaddling, engulfing headwraps, they are no longer girls, but simply noses and necks. Don't they realize that all of this effluvia only calls more attention to their cankles?
Boys
Clam diggers. Capri pants. Skinny Jeans, with their stovepipe legs rolled fetchingly into twee little cuffs, just like the teenaged gang girl from West Side Story. Often these are accompanied by a tepid and low-slung flimsy sneaker, or sneakette, as I prefer to call them. First it was only the gays, now it is the straights and in-betweens too. What gives? Let me be clear, there are very few guys who can truly carry this off without resembling a not-that-hot lesbian. Particularly if topped off with an awkward bowl cut. I suppose this is, at least partially, why they are all prone to growing those beards now, in order to more clearly differentiate themselves from any given member of Le Tigre. Somehow, they just look like burgeoning cult leaders of some pervy, androgynous band of apple-assed, bearded ladies. It's a good thing they closed down the McCarren Pool, or they likely would have started a tent-city and made it their cult's home base. Then the headband-wearing Sandy Duncans could have moved in as their devoted followers and concubines, relegated to cropping their leaders' pants and washing their fledgling beards. Holy Hare Krishna!
Often I wonder where these people and their outfits come from. I feel like New York City used to be more discerning, but with the bad economy and all, it has lowered its standards and eased the requirements for entry. I vote we get the velvet ropes back in front of NYC, or at the very least, create a mandatory style guide to be handed out at every airport, toll-booth, bridge and tunnel. I think Paris might appreciate this too. They have their own problems.
My friend emailed me the other day about the latest annoying hipster-girl trend of headbands and the Bohemian-Apache-Lass look, witnessed on the L train one recent morning. It wouldn't be quite so eggregious if stylish people were doing it and vaguely “getting it right”, but inevitably it is always some overly-accessorized Christmas tree of a girl. AND they are never skinny. One must be skinny to pull off the delicate-skull-string-circumventing-forehead look, accompanied by the requisite messy hair, blank, blurry eyes, and self-consciously tattered cut-offs. MUST. I am also troubled by those weird little elf-boot sandals that these same girls are slouching around town in this summer. They look like Sandy Duncan trouncing off to a Peter Pan rehearsal after her weekly Weight-Watcher’s meeting. Oh, and how about the “Nicole Ritchie” bug-eyed-shades-and-scarf-over-head look from three years ago that has resurfaced on all the wrong heads? Between the gigantic sunglasses and swaddling, engulfing headwraps, they are no longer girls, but simply noses and necks. Don't they realize that all of this effluvia only calls more attention to their cankles?
Boys
Clam diggers. Capri pants. Skinny Jeans, with their stovepipe legs rolled fetchingly into twee little cuffs, just like the teenaged gang girl from West Side Story. Often these are accompanied by a tepid and low-slung flimsy sneaker, or sneakette, as I prefer to call them. First it was only the gays, now it is the straights and in-betweens too. What gives? Let me be clear, there are very few guys who can truly carry this off without resembling a not-that-hot lesbian. Particularly if topped off with an awkward bowl cut. I suppose this is, at least partially, why they are all prone to growing those beards now, in order to more clearly differentiate themselves from any given member of Le Tigre. Somehow, they just look like burgeoning cult leaders of some pervy, androgynous band of apple-assed, bearded ladies. It's a good thing they closed down the McCarren Pool, or they likely would have started a tent-city and made it their cult's home base. Then the headband-wearing Sandy Duncans could have moved in as their devoted followers and concubines, relegated to cropping their leaders' pants and washing their fledgling beards. Holy Hare Krishna!
Often I wonder where these people and their outfits come from. I feel like New York City used to be more discerning, but with the bad economy and all, it has lowered its standards and eased the requirements for entry. I vote we get the velvet ropes back in front of NYC, or at the very least, create a mandatory style guide to be handed out at every airport, toll-booth, bridge and tunnel. I think Paris might appreciate this too. They have their own problems.
When In Doubt, Pull it Out!
A thoughtful colleague forwarded the following link to a blog, which was created to function exclusively as a platform from which to vent and chronicle the goings-on and behavioral ticks of their erstwhile roommate: bad-roomate.blogspot. There are a couple of nuggets, but this is my favorite, hands-down:
“I went food shopping and I found the food that I bought hidden in his special kosher cabinet.”
Aside from the statement itself being hilarious, I love that it reads like a Jewish orthodox double entendre for playing "Hide the Babka." When in doubt, pull it out! Especially when it is hidden in his special kosher cabinet!!!!!!
“I went food shopping and I found the food that I bought hidden in his special kosher cabinet.”
Aside from the statement itself being hilarious, I love that it reads like a Jewish orthodox double entendre for playing "Hide the Babka." When in doubt, pull it out! Especially when it is hidden in his special kosher cabinet!!!!!!
Wouldn't this be fun to do during Fashion Week?
This is quite possibly the funniest Led Zeppelin groupie anecdote I’ve ever read. I can’t stop rereading it and laughing – the language is hilarious.
While trying to watch TV one night during their 1971 North American tour, Led Zeppelin drummer John Bonham found himself repeatedly distracted by the grunting and groaning sounds issuing from the visitors in his road manager's bed. Bonham, seeking a measure of revenge, finally found a shoe by the door, and pooped in it.
Bonham encountered the girl after their show the following night. "Remember me? You shit in my shoe," she declared. "I wanted to thank you for a wonderful night!"
[On another occasion, Bonham grew annoyed with Jimmy Page's Japanese girlfriend - and pooped in her purse.]
While trying to watch TV one night during their 1971 North American tour, Led Zeppelin drummer John Bonham found himself repeatedly distracted by the grunting and groaning sounds issuing from the visitors in his road manager's bed. Bonham, seeking a measure of revenge, finally found a shoe by the door, and pooped in it.
Bonham encountered the girl after their show the following night. "Remember me? You shit in my shoe," she declared. "I wanted to thank you for a wonderful night!"
[On another occasion, Bonham grew annoyed with Jimmy Page's Japanese girlfriend - and pooped in her purse.]
Fashion Rocks...sometimes, sometimes not.
So, I watched Fashion Rocks, Conde Nast's tribute to the music industry (or, as I like to call it, "Music and Fashion fuck Each Other in Public") this past week, and like every other viewer, felt assaulted by Beyonce's mediocre and sub-par performing sister, Solange. She should have been arrested right off the Fashion Rocks stage for impersonating a singer/dancer. As for Beyonce, why perpetuate a sham career for this criminally talentless sibling? The only two things that Solange has in common with her sister that I can see, are a nasty attitude (allegedly) and superb hair extensions. I suppose it's charming to fantasize that Beyonce loves her sister so much that she is willing to overlook the obvious, and wield her considerable power and talent to lend a helping hand where, obviously, one wouldn’t otherwise be.
Come on Tina, don’t they have any openings at the House of Knowles?
PS. I wanted to respond to a comment I received on above post. I suppose it is rather mean, but nepotism gets in my craw good and deep. I live in a city filled to capacity with talented, hard-working people who can't catch a break. Look - if you don't have the chops to pull off a good performance due to an egregious lack of talent, then you have no business being on such a public stage. There are plenty of places to warble some off-key karaoke, and this is not it.
Come on Tina, don’t they have any openings at the House of Knowles?
PS. I wanted to respond to a comment I received on above post. I suppose it is rather mean, but nepotism gets in my craw good and deep. I live in a city filled to capacity with talented, hard-working people who can't catch a break. Look - if you don't have the chops to pull off a good performance due to an egregious lack of talent, then you have no business being on such a public stage. There are plenty of places to warble some off-key karaoke, and this is not it.
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